The coming of shadow and flame.
It was the first weapon of its kind he had ever held. Druids crafted more practical things—hammers, spades and arrowheads. He’d believed the sword was too precious to western men, but the Vaich had left without it.
His fingers clutched it close to his chest. He would bring it, he decided, and if the Vaich came…
But he did not come, and the druid set forth without him.
They were three—the Fíor, a navigator, and himself. A funeral procession with the youngest as their bier. He was tired of being led, like an animal to slaughter. He wanted to bite into his bridle, to tear those loathsome straps to shreds. But he could not speak. Could not scream.
They headed northeast, where he was told they would find the Urna’ha.
“That one is known to us as the Bheira Ægan—the All-Seeing Crone. Of all her kin, she is strongest and wisest. But with power must come respect. I advise you to prepare yourself. Clear your mind, lay bare your soul. For she will find the truth within you nonetheless.”
The woods watched their passage. With each step, the whispers grew louder. Louder and more fierce.
The light of the nach’durnathan faded behind them and in the darkness, he heard the thumping heartbeat of the forest.
Thump.
Thump.
“Too quiet. Even for you.”
He glanced up, seeing the Vaich at his side. Or rather, what he recalled of him. A hazy, strangely comforting warmth. A warmth he should have detested, yet craved enough to envision him there, as if he had never left.
“It is a spiritual journey. I should keep with my thoughts before I…” The druid’s voice fell to silence.
They were empty, foolish words. He could not speak as though he had come there on his own like a true Listener. He had only chosen this path in attempt to placate whatever force was pulling his strings. It wasn’t reverence.
It was fear.
“Something the matter?" asked the Fíor.
“No, I…” The druid searched for the Vaich again, but this time, only emptiness gazed back.
He tightened his grip on the sword.
They had been traveling for some time when their navigator stopped. The forest had grown thick, and there was no light but the orange of their lanterns. There were no sounds but the trill of nightbirds in faraway nests.
“It is near now. Not much further.”
They soon came upon a copse of ancient oaks. The whispers had become a horrid screaming, and in his mind, the druid pled for silence.
Finally, he saw it.
On a mound of dark soil, it rose from the ground. A wild thing—its branches contorted. Its roots tangled in knots, bark slick with scarlet sap. And there, at the center, was a crevice—a deep notch just big enough for a man.
The druid stepped up the mound. The roots pressed against his bare feet. Not cold, but warm.
Alive.
He had seen other womb trees, some in a state of greater petrification. But despite its name, this one seemed fresh, as if still young.
The hilt of the sword had dug canyons in his palm. His knuckles were white as ash. Deep within the dark, he could make out the shape of Onath’s broken body. His eyes were barren, filthy holes; his tongue was crawling with worms.
The druid blinked.
Onath was gone.
